


Cry to Me

by linguamortua



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual Violence, Cunnilingus, F/F, Femdom, Guilt, Punishment, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 07:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10079642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: ‘Ask me properly,’ Pharah says pleasantly, leaning back against the wall. ‘And I will consider your request.’ Her blood is thrumming still; it always takes her a night’s sleep to settle down after killing. Ziegler swallows hard, then rallies.‘Please hurt me, Pharah,’ she says, her voice catching in the middle of the sentence.Mercy's work makes her feel terribly guilty. She needs Pharah to punish her for it. Pharah is perfectly qualified to deliver all the different kinds of pain that Mercy requires.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you like your femslash sweet and loving, this fic is not for you! Pharah is not a particularly nice person. Read the tags and proceed using your best judgement.
> 
> This artistic travesty is dedicated to S, a careful beta, a talented D.va and an awful enabler!

‘I’m sorry to show up unannounced,’ says Ziegler, her hand still faltering in mid-air where she had knocked. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her shoulders are slumped. She looks up through her eyelashes like a stray dog begging for a bed by the fire. This happens: she shows up with no invitation, at her own whim, expecting to be a surprise. But Pharah—for she has thought of herself as Pharah for a long time now—had heard her walking down the hall long before the faltering knock came.

‘You announced yourself two minutes ago,’ Pharah tells her curtly, ‘when you let the outside door slam.’ Ziegler never could learn any kind of stealth. It’s a weakness, and one of many. Still, Pharah stands to one side and lets Ziegler come into her room.

This time, they are barracked in an old police training school, the last vestiges of its previous occupants hastily removed. This is the level of respect they are now afforded. Pharah’s room is like a cell, cramped, with a narrow bed, a sink, and a nightstand that is little more than a wooden box. Privations are part of a soldier’s life, but this is insulting. And now she must be a nursemaid to a grown woman. She folds her arms and looks at Ziegler as the woman hovers in the centre of the available floor space. 

‘It was a difficult mission today,’ says the doctor, eyes brimming with tears. Pharah’s right shoulder is still aching, even after the cold, spasming burn of Ziegler’s healing beam; she knows all too well how difficult the mission was. More so than Ziegler, hanging back at the rear and fluttering like a debutante. But of course Ziegler is talking about the casualties. Regrettable, but not their concern. Pharah herself had killed several of the enemy—this was war, in short. 

‘We performed adequately and got home without losses,’ says Pharah, hearing her mother in her voice. It shuts Ziegler right down. She stands like an overgrown girl, hands behind her back. Even little Hana has more backbone than the doctor. Pharah waits her out. Eventually, Ziegler speaks.

‘So, I had hoped…’

‘What?’ Pharah likes to make her say it. Likes to make her beg for it.

‘You know what I need, Fareeha. Please—’ 

Pharah slaps her, a delicious, full-palmed blow to the face that echoes in the small room. Ziegler makes a wounded, gasping sound and touches her pretty, milk-white cheek. 

‘My name is Pharah. Say it, please.’

‘Pharah,’ says Ziegler, very quietly. Her face is red on both sides, from the slap and from embarrassment. She looks down at the floor. Leaving her to stand there, Pharah turns away and fetches a bottle of scotch from her nightstand. There is only a plastic glass in her room—appalling—but she pours herself two fingers and recaps the bottle. She doesn’t offer Ziegler any. 

‘Now ask me properly,’ Pharah says pleasantly, leaning back against the wall. ‘And I will consider your request.’ Her blood is thrumming still; it always takes her a night’s sleep to settle down after killing. Ziegler swallows hard, then rallies.

‘Please hurt me, Pharah,’ she says, her voice catching in the middle of the sentence. She has very little dignity at the moment, but she has mustered all of it, drawing it about her slim body like a cloak. Experience has taught Pharah that to sneer at her provokes an unsatisfying result. What assuages the doctor’s guilt after a mission is physical pain. Punishment. 

‘Strip,’ she says, taking another sip of liquor. Ziegler hurries to comply. Nudity doesn’t make her ashamed—she is very European in that way—but fosters a sense of vulnerability. Very soon she is naked, pale and slender. She depilates herself to a degree that Pharah cannot make herself care about. The luxury of blonde hair, Pharah supposes, is the ease with which Ziegler can render herself smooth and hairless. 

Pharah carefully sets down her drink and ties her hair up in a twisted bun, slipping the hair tie from her wrist over the knot to hold it in place. She is in her old Overwatch tank top and underwear, bare-footed, bra-less. This is convenient, as Ziegler will inevitably bleed. She flexes her hands and rolls her shoulders, feeling the bone-deep ache of exhaustion and the healing muscles in her arm where she swooped down to snatch Jesse out of danger. Even the Raptora armour cannot fully protect her from the physical stresses of picking up a grown man one-armed. So she must go easy on herself tonight, conserve her body. Ziegler can withstand less pain than she, Pharah, could endure as a small girl. Also convenient. 

The doctor’s wan, pale face irritates Pharah to a remarkable degree. Her whole life she has studied martial arts, trained herself in discipline and made good use of her talents. She has no regrets and little remorse. Self-pity annoys her, and Ziegler is nothing but a woman-shaped sack of doubts and troubles and self-loathing. Wasting her considerable skills on this nonsense—small wonder that Pharah’s mother always found Ziegler tedious. It is one of the few points upon which she and her daughter agree.

Pharah takes out a little of her frustration. She slaps Ziegler again. Left-handed, this time. By the third slap, the woman is braced for it, so Pharah changes it up and knees her in the belly so that she folds. She doesn’t quite end up on her knees, and Pharah rewards her by letting her stand. And then, with her blood singing in her veins, Pharah punches Ziegler right in her solar plexus.

Choking, Ziegler slides to the floor. Pharah kicks her in the side, just barely. A wet gasp and Ziegler is breathing again in quick pants. Her hands are gripping at the floor so hard that her knuckles are bone-white. There is little space in the room, but Pharah manages to stalk around Ziegler, stalling, giving no clue as to where the next blow is coming from. Ziegler hates that; hates being out of control. And yet, here she is. Pharah contemplates her hunched form for a moment, and then kicks her again. She turns and lets Ziegler wait, taking up her glass of scotch and drinking. She is rather thirsty. Ice would be a blessing.

It doesn't take long to dismantle Ziegler. The meaty, dull sounds Pharah’s fists and feet make upon impact are viscerally satisfying. In her more sadistic moments, she could wish for more of a challenge. Already, though, her body is complaining. By rights she should be in bed with a book of poetry. There are benefits, however, to Ziegler’s presence. Pharah steps away and finishes her drink, rolling out her upper back and cracking her knuckles. 

Meanwhile, Ziegler pulls herself into a sitting position and leans back against the edge of the bed. Her face is swollen from crying and tear-stained, although not bruised. There are few limits to this game, but Ziegler does not want to explain a black eye to Morrison, and so Pharah carefully places her blows. She is not out of control, no—she understands how to inflict the necessary amount of pain. Ziegler closes her eyes and sighs, tipping her head back against the end of the bed. She has what she came for. 

Pharah does not have what she wants, and it irks her that now she must demand it. 

‘Ziegler,’ she says sharply. She snaps her fingers impatiently until the woman peels open her eyes. Ziegler’s face falls. 

‘I'm so tired, Pharah,’ she says. ‘I just can't move.’ Her voice has a dying little lilt to it, as if fatigue is a real affliction. 

‘I don’t indulge you as a favour,’ Pharah warns her. She tucks her thumbs under her underwear and pushes them to the floor. Usually she likes to lie down, or sit on the edge of the bed with Ziegler on her knees on the floor. But Pharah is adaptable. She steps in closer to Ziegler, whose face has adopted a look of resignation. Then Pharah is standing over her, and she lifts one knee to the mattress. Ziegler’s breath is warm against the inside of her thigh.

‘Pharah,’ Ziegler protests one more time, in a gasping, prudish way, as if she had come here with no idea of what was to happen. Pharah feels cruel, suddenly, and indulges the feeling. 

‘Perhaps if you let Morrison fuck you, you wouldn't have to come here like a bitch in heat,’ she says. Ziegler sucks in a surprised gasp; Pharah feels it against her skin. ‘Most likely he would do it. I'm sure he's noticed you gazing at him like a schoolgirl.’ She looks down at where Ziegler’s face is framed between her thighs. ‘Men usually want you to suck their cocks—did you know that, doctor?’ She articulates the word ‘doctor’ with crisp precision, and it jerks Ziegler into anger for the first time.

‘I’m not a child,’ she says, a high colour in her cheeks. ‘I know what he—what a man wants.’

‘Oh, good,’ Pharah says idly, gripping a handful of Ziegler’s fine blonde hair. ‘So you can pretend you’re fucking _him_.’ She chokes off Ziegler’s attempt at a reply by pulling her by the hair until the woman’s mouth touches her between the legs. Despite her display of reticence, Ziegler has been well trained; she immediately curls her tongue out and runs it lightly up between Pharah’s lips. A gentle tease, to begin with. Pharah imagines the first wet burst of salt, the first taste. Her own mouth waters a little. With her knee up on the mattress, she is already opened up for Ziegler’s tongue, and she rocks down onto it. At the right angle Ziegler’s nose bumps Pharah’s clitoris and makes her huff out a quick breath. She leans into the pressure, and under her Ziegler tries to readjust. Pharah stops her, tightening her fingers into Ziegler’s hair until it hurts her.

Ziegler whimpers but she keeps going, slowly fucking Pharah with her tongue. The woman seems to believe herself to be straight, but it was easy to train her to eat cunt, and she keeps coming back, and back, and back. Her tongue finds Pharah’s clit and laps at it in little circles, the perfect pressure, the perfect technique. Pharah groans and lets her hand relax against Ziegler’s hair as a reward. She pushes away her fatigue and irritation, lets herself enjoy this correct order of things. It is just what she wants. She is throbbing with gentle anticipation, pleasure building in her belly. Blood rises hot in her face and chest, she swells and heats, begins to rock her hips against Ziegler’s tongue. 

‘Fuck,’ she says in a soft breath, letting her knee on the mattress take more weight. Ziegler has to crane her neck back uncomfortably to keep licking her. They fit together at exactly the right angle and Pharah cannot stop herself from pressing herself down more firmly. Ziegler gulps in a wet breath around her work. She is breathing fast through her nose, not daring to pull off. She accepts her punishment, or her masochism, or whatever other stupid indulgence it is that brings her here. Oh, Pharah loves to own her. 

Now Ziegler is hardly moving at all; Pharah is fucking her face, rubbing herself off against Ziegler’s tongue and lips and chin. They are slick where their skin meets, so that every thrust Pharah makes slides easily. It feels good—too good to last. Pharah is only half-aware of her thoughts as they flicker through broken images and scenes. The whining, gasping breaths Ziegler is making. What she could teach the woman to do for her next time. How else she could heighten her own savage joy. She could put Ziegler face down on the floor and fuck her like a man, with a dildo. She could make the woman choke on her fingers. She imagines, for a delirious moment, fucking Jack Morrison in front of Ziegler—or with her, perhaps, Morrison pressing slow and intense into her ass while Pharah rides Ziegler’s face. 

That last tips her over the edge, swept to orgasm in a fantasy of pain and pressure and humiliation. She comes hard, holding Ziegler’s face against her until she struggles to breath, rutting onto her in long, wet pulses. Her hips jerk; she groans, tugs on Ziegler’s hair. Under her, Ziegler’s feet scrabble on the ground and she makes a muffled noise that vibrates against Pharah’s cunt. 

‘Have you had enough, yet?’ Pharah says with difficulty, her breath tight. Ziegler whimpers, tries to struggle away. Pharah lets her pull off just enough to answer.

‘Yes, I—’ Ziegler’s hands hover, helpless; Pharah does not let her use them when they do this.

‘Say it, then.’ They can stop any time Ziegler wants, if only she subjects herself to one final humiliation.

‘Pharah—’

‘Say it,’ Pharah says, giving Ziegler a little shake. 

‘Mercy,’ Ziegler gasps eventually, tears rolling down her cheeks and her mouth slack and wet. She sobs it out. Pharah relents and steps back, feeling the wetness against the inside of her thighs. She doesn’t bother to dress; she is ashamed of nothing. Ziegler, scrambling, gets to her feet and pulls on her clothes. Her shoulders shake. Pharah looks at her for a moment, watching her cry big, cathartic tears. Her own body feels loose and warm and tired; she could sleep very easily.

‘Now get out,’ she says dispassionately, all her patience exhausted. 

Ziegler flees.


End file.
